WARNING: This chapter includes an implied relationship between a historical figure and France, as well as one of the a!anons Going There With Extreme Prejudice, while doing her best to be respectful. Concrit is encouraged.
Also, there’s a scene in here that may or may not be shamelessly based off of a moment from a Brave trailer. That should be it. Enjoy! ________
They do not touch at dinner, but they still stand too close for France’s comfort.
Well, he thinks to himself as he props his chin up in his palm, perhaps close isn’t quite the right term. He’s close to others in ways that don’t involve clothes or speech or all the nasty little complications that come with attachments.
No. They aren’t touching, perhaps, but there’s something in the way that they stick to one another’s side---even as one bites out Italian insults and the other blows a raspberry at his younger brother. It’s the way their shoulders brush, and neither of them start back like blushing virgins.
It’s the way they bump elbows as they sit down, and the way they talk--too far away for France to hear what they’re saying, across a room of crowded, pent-up nations just ready to go home soon.
They are close, yes. But the word he’s looking for is--
“Ah,” he murmurs to himself, and snaps his fingers
They are too intimate.
And the last time France found intimacy, it ended with--
“Ve, Big Brother France! Why are you sitting over here all alone?”
France lets out a little sigh, even as he turns to Veneziano with a smile. He needs the distraction.
“I am just thinking, Italy,” he lets his smile grow wide and warm, a skill perfected after centuries of social interaction. “Though I am glad you came to draw me from my thoughts.” Italy’s brow furrows a little, and France just lays a hand on his shoulder, squeezing the tensed muscles. “Why are you not with Germany?”
Italy beams, all bright sunny days and a cloud’s silver lining. “He went to the men’s room, and then I was going to go say ‘Ciao’ to fratello, only he seems a little... distracted.”
He turns to look at Romano, and France follows his gaze. Prussia is poking him in the arm, whining about something, and Romano fails to look exasperated, in favor of looking amused instead.
Spain is sitting not too far away, doodling in his notes and chattering with Portugal, but his eyes are far too dim.
“He seems a lot happier today, though!” Veneziano adds when France doesn’t speak. “Yesterday he was so upset. I wish he would just tell me what’s going on. It’s not normal for him to be so moody.”
France bites the inside of his cheek, choosing not to correct Veneziano. “Don’t worry, Italia,” France murmurs softly, “I am doing all that I can to make sure he is going to be okay.”
Italy looks at France, his smile smaller and more humble than usual. “I know you are, big brother.”
Then Germany comes back into the dining room and Veneziano pecks France on the cheek swiftly before bounding back to him.
It’s true enough. For selfish as he might, be, and needy--France wants them to be happy.
His eyes wander about the room, to where America holds a fork to England’s pressed lips and deepening frown; to where Canada cradles an armful of tulips as he grins shyly at the Netherlands; to where Belarus crushes Lithuania’s hand in her grip, as though terrified he would run from her as her brother does.
He has known them all in bed, each and every one. And in spite of everything, he wants to see them happy with one another.
It is better than being in love with him--or even worse, falling in love with one of them.
Something catches him from the corner of his eye. He turns his head and finds himself staring straight into Romano’s eyes, all the way across the hotel dining room.
And then, for some reason that France cannot even begin to fathom, Romano smiles at him.
It is only for an instant; after that glimpse Romano is turned back to Prussia, slapping his hand as Prussia tries to steal from his plate. Though France knows he does not want to fall in love, it is too late not to fall in longing. He is not jealous of any of them, no, but he wishes that there could be a second chance for him. Sex is wonderful, but slipping away in the slightly-chilled sunrise is not.
And Then They All Fucked, And Made Everything Worse: The Fanfic [5a/?]
Also, there’s a scene in here that may or may not be shamelessly based off of a moment from a Brave trailer. That should be it. Enjoy!
________
They do not touch at dinner, but they still stand too close for France’s comfort.
Well, he thinks to himself as he props his chin up in his palm, perhaps close isn’t quite the right term. He’s close to others in ways that don’t involve clothes or speech or all the nasty little complications that come with attachments.
No. They aren’t touching, perhaps, but there’s something in the way that they stick to one another’s side---even as one bites out Italian insults and the other blows a raspberry at his younger brother. It’s the way their shoulders brush, and neither of them start back like blushing virgins.
It’s the way they bump elbows as they sit down, and the way they talk--too far away for France to hear what they’re saying, across a room of crowded, pent-up nations just ready to go home soon.
They are close, yes. But the word he’s looking for is--
“Ah,” he murmurs to himself, and snaps his fingers
They are too intimate.
And the last time France found intimacy, it ended with--
“Ve, Big Brother France! Why are you sitting over here all alone?”
France lets out a little sigh, even as he turns to Veneziano with a smile. He needs the distraction.
“I am just thinking, Italy,” he lets his smile grow wide and warm, a skill perfected after centuries of social interaction. “Though I am glad you came to draw me from my thoughts.” Italy’s brow furrows a little, and France just lays a hand on his shoulder, squeezing the tensed muscles. “Why are you not with Germany?”
Italy beams, all bright sunny days and a cloud’s silver lining. “He went to the men’s room, and then I was going to go say ‘Ciao’ to fratello, only he seems a little... distracted.”
He turns to look at Romano, and France follows his gaze. Prussia is poking him in the arm, whining about something, and Romano fails to look exasperated, in favor of looking amused instead.
Spain is sitting not too far away, doodling in his notes and chattering with Portugal, but his eyes are far too dim.
“He seems a lot happier today, though!” Veneziano adds when France doesn’t speak. “Yesterday he was so upset. I wish he would just tell me what’s going on. It’s not normal for him to be so moody.”
France bites the inside of his cheek, choosing not to correct Veneziano. “Don’t worry, Italia,” France murmurs softly, “I am doing all that I can to make sure he is going to be okay.”
Italy looks at France, his smile smaller and more humble than usual. “I know you are, big brother.”
Then Germany comes back into the dining room and Veneziano pecks France on the cheek swiftly before bounding back to him.
It’s true enough. For selfish as he might, be, and needy--France wants them to be happy.
His eyes wander about the room, to where America holds a fork to England’s pressed lips and deepening frown; to where Canada cradles an armful of tulips as he grins shyly at the Netherlands; to where Belarus crushes Lithuania’s hand in her grip, as though terrified he would run from her as her brother does.
He has known them all in bed, each and every one. And in spite of everything, he wants to see them happy with one another.
It is better than being in love with him--or even worse, falling in love with one of them.
Something catches him from the corner of his eye. He turns his head and finds himself staring straight into Romano’s eyes, all the way across the hotel dining room.
And then, for some reason that France cannot even begin to fathom, Romano smiles at him.
It is only for an instant; after that glimpse Romano is turned back to Prussia, slapping his hand as Prussia tries to steal from his plate. Though France knows he does not want to fall in love, it is too late not to fall in longing. He is not jealous of any of them, no, but he wishes that there could be a second chance for him. Sex is wonderful, but slipping away in the slightly-chilled sunrise is not.